


slow dancing in a burning room

by Zayz



Category: Scandal (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 19:55:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zayz/pseuds/Zayz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fitz/Olivia. "How gloriously, tragically, miserably, desperately he loves her. How gloriously, tragically, miserably, desperately she loves him back. She never knew a physical being could contain so much feeling without combustion. She never knew that being so doomed in a practical sense, could be so achingly lovely." An alternate version of their scene in 2x19.</p>
            </blockquote>





	slow dancing in a burning room

**Author's Note:**

> Written before 2x20, so of course, I saw the push-and-pull of 2x19 and decided that instead of breaking the kiss, Olivia should have let it go on and on where it may. Hence, fic.
> 
> Wanted to deal with Verna here too, but somehow she didn't fit into this tale. Another time, another place
> 
> My experience with Scandal!fic is limited; I beg you to be kind.

slow dancing in a burning room  
By: Zayz

_We're going down,_   
_and you can see it too._   
_We're going down,_   
_and you know that we're doomed._   
_My dear, we're slow dancing in a burning room_

_Don't you think we oughta know by now?_   
_Don't you think we shoulda learned somehow?_   
_Don't you think we oughta know by now?_   
_Don't you think we shoulda learned somehow?_   
_Don't you think we oughta know by now?_

_\- John Mayer, "Slow Dancing in a Burning Room"_   


* * *

  
  
"You hurt me."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
And oh, he is sorry. It radiates off of him like heat. She can taste his agony, like a bitter seed, in his kiss; she can feel it in the way that he holds her so tightly against him, the way his mouth crushes her mouth and his tongue collides with hers like a shipwreck coming to shore. His kiss is rough and raw and wrenching, and she can't breathe – there is no time or space for oxygen – it's him and her and nothing else. She is separated from him only by a hospital gown as thin as paper, so thin that he can feel her madly racing heart on his own skin.  
  
She wants to pull away, she wants to run away from him – that is what her gut tells her to do – but let's face it, her gut has been broken ever since she met Fitzgerald Grant. It lies uselessly in her stomach, like a broken alarm clock, and she can't rely on it the way she used to. She can't tell herself to run away and mean it.  
  
So she lets it go on, and on, and on, that kiss. Time stretches out before them like a red carpet to the stars, and every sweet second is its own little slice of infinity. It's amazing, really, how they do this – forget everything, everything, and gorge themselves on each other, get drunk on this and the way it makes them feel, as though it's okay or even right, just because he loves her and she loves him and they don't know how else it should be.  
  
This isn't the place for it – this is a hospital room, and there are people all over this floor, a doctor could walk in any minute – but she is long past caring what is appropriate. The rules were discarded long ago, burned to a crisp by the life she leads. And now, with great difficulty, he tears himself away from her just long enough to lock the door – and they fall back on the bed and surrender. Do a victory dance around the dying embers of all the "should be's."

* * *

  
"You hurt me."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
She tastes the salt of his tears as he sucks on her lower lip, his hands clutching her hair like she is a lifeboat. He has so much to be sorry for – but then, so does she.  
  
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He mumbles the words against her skin like an incantation, like a magic spell that will somehow save them both.  
  
He peels the gown away from her, and he kisses her like it's their own secret language, like his mouth is the pen and her body is the page and he wants to write epic poems over every inch of her skin.  
  
And she lets him feast freely upon her, lets him kiss her his painful apologies. His tongue in the hollows of her neck, for pushing her away at Verna's funeral. His lips trailing kisses like tiny pearls across her collarbone, for their tryst in the closet and his cruel words afterward. One, two, three, four hot open-mouthed kisses on her flushed cheeks, for not letting her explain about Defiance. His face buried between her breasts, his teeth sinking into her softness, for the last three years he has had to spend married to Mellie when all he wanted was to spend every minute just like this, lost in her splendor.  
  
He works his way down her limbs and then finds the folds of her most sensitive skin – and then he kisses her there too, feels the hardness amidst the softness, feels the way her body responds to his touch as though he was the only creature ever made to plunder her depths.  
  
He takes so much from her, leaving her drained, but then she is so full and alive from all the things that she takes from him, that she blossoms. Again, he tells her, "I'm sorry," and she whispers back, "I know."

* * *

  
  
"You hurt me."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
For hours, it doesn't matter what they are doing, so long as they are touching. They lie on her hospital bed, naked and sweaty and tangled up in each other like knotted ribbons, and she can't remember the last time she felt this relaxed, this happy.  
  
The doctors and nurses try to come in a few times, but Olivia just says that she needs privacy right now. And a couple of times, urgent calls from Cyrus make Fitz's phone – or the phones of the Secret Service – go berserk. But Fitz just says that he needs privacy right now, and they leave him alone. The world melts away; none of it matters. They need this time. It is only now, together, that they realize how hollow and empty they have been this past year – how they have only been brittle shells of themselves until they had the other to make them whole once more.  
  
He kisses her neck softly, then with increasing urgency, inhaling the scent of her and letting it fill him up, like he is a balloon swelling with air. She turns to her side and straddles him with her leg and presses his body against hers until her bones ache, until it seems like all the laws of physics and matter have dissolved to dust, and the barriers between their bodies fall away, and their souls become one.  
  
How gloriously, tragically, miserably, desperately he loves her. How gloriously, tragically, miserably, desperately she loves him back. She never knew a physical being could contain so much feeling without combustion. She never knew that being so doomed in a practical sense, could be so achingly lovely.  
  
Because they are definitely, definitely doomed. She knows this and he knows this too; it's in the way his fingers stroke the hollow of her hip so gently, with such tremulous melancholy. But even as their lives slowly, surely, fall apart, she is happy here, just like this, the two of them holding each other, keeping each other safe through the worst of it.

* * *

  
  
"You hurt me."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
They indulge in their physicality until long after the sun goes down. And as the stars make themselves visible in the darkening sky, words somehow formulate inside her chest and crawl up her throat, and come out of her mouth like a new river, the stream coming slowly at first, but then rushing out all at once.  
  
Her usual filters are gone, because she is exhausted in every way she can think of, and it has been so long since they have been so soft and vulnerable and unguarded with each other, and she has missed being able to talk to him, really talk to him, let him into her inner sanctum a little bit. She is so alone in the world, and he makes her feel less alone – it's as simple as that – and sometimes, her instinctive need to continue feeling less alone bypasses her brain and makes these words come out, words she will be embarrassed of later, but words that need to be said, because it is so late in the day and she is in the hospital and he is here with her, and it means the earth and beyond that he wants another chance. That he didn't give up on them the way she had feared.  
  
She has been a goner for three years; she loves him and she doesn't know how to stop. Her feelings are a hurricane for which there is no natural solution but to let the storm play out, because it wants what it wants – her heart wants what it wants – and she is powerless, utterly powerless. And he understands at once what she means because he is the same – he loves ardently and without reserve – and it has been so hard on both of them, having to quietly suppress something as natural and big and beautiful as their love for each other.  
  
None of this is easy. Even being together isn't easy. Because he hurt her and he is sorry, and she hurt him and she is sorry, and this whole thing is like treading barefoot over a graveyard of thorns. She bleeds for him. She loves him and she would do – has done – everything for him, even when every cell in her body screamed at her not to. And he loves her the same way, has risked everything he has on countless occasions, just to get a little piece of her to tide him over until the next time.  
  
It makes her so sad to think that every night, she goes to sleep alone in a bed that doesn't even smell like her because she spends so little time in it, and every night, he goes to sleep in a bed that is cold and that he detests because of the woman lying next to him. And every night, they cannot be with the person they really want to be with.  
  
She has never had a whole night with him before. Not really. They have had many afternoons, and limited chunks of the night, but never the whole night. He has never been able to sleep beside her for as long as he likes, and wake up beside her, and just watch the early morning sunlight kiss the angles of her face, content with the world. She knows he wants to do that. She wants it too. She wants everything. Everything that is possible to take from him.  
  
So tonight, she asks him, "Can you stay?"  
  
And he tells her, "Whatever you want, Liv."  
  
Her smile is weak, but it is present. She is so very tired. It is indescribably wonderful, being soft and sweet and naked and defenseless for him. No pretense, no composure, no gladiator in a white hat. No Olivia Pope. Just Liv, with Fitz, the man she loves to oblivion. Just Liv, the person behind the persona.  
  
She curls up beside him like a sleepy kitten, and he strokes her hair until she falls asleep.

* * *

  
She has a long, dreamless sleep – the first real sleep she has had all year – and wakes up feeling like she is still in a dream, because it's morning, and sunlight is streaming in through the window, and Fitz is still holding her, his cheek resting against the top of her head, his snores rhythmically ruffling her hair.  
  
But it's real, all of it. Every detail, sharp and blazing and lovely. He is here with her. He put the whole country on hold because he is here with her. That is slightly embarrassing, but also gratifying. Because though she cannot be his in the legal sense – in the way that Mellie is – she is his in every other sense, and he is hers, and he is here. Here, because she needs him.  
  
She soaks up every glorious moment of him holding her, sleeping on her, until he wakes up. And when he does, he smiles crookedly at her, so pleased, like she was, to find that this image is in fact real.  
  
"Good morning," he says, kissing her cheek.  
  
She is enthralled by his morning breath. Not because it smells good – it doesn't – but because it's a scent and a side of him that she gets very rarely, if at all. She gives him a radiant smile, and says, "Good morning."  
  
He yawns – there's that morning breath again, sending a thrill down her spine – and says, "So you get to be released today, right?"  
  
"Right." Olivia sighs. "I have to get back to work. There is…plenty to take care of."  
  
"Me too," says Fitz, and it makes them both laugh because God, yes, there is so much for him to take care of at work right now. But it also makes them both somber, and unconsciously cuddle each other closer, unwilling as they are to leave this insulated bubble they have created for themselves here.  
  
"What's the time?" she asks.  
  
He reaches over her head for his watch, which is discarded on the bedside table. "Nine thirty."  
  
"I think I was supposed to get discharged at noon. If we ever let the nurses back in here."  
  
He chuckles again. "We should probably get some clothes on before they forcibly unlock the door."  
  
They go on a treasure hunt around the bed, then, looking for their clothes. Olivia's are easy to find – just the hospital gown – but Fitz's clothes are scattered everywhere, his shirt and his pants and his belt and his socks. It takes several minutes to get all the pieces back together. They spend so much time undressing each other that it amuses Fitz to let Olivia put his clothes back on for him, for a change.  
  
She is careful and methodical, starting with his boxers, then putting on his socks and his pants and the rest. She runs her fingers through his curls, putting them in some semblance of order. She squints her eyes and bites her lip as she does it, focusing so hard on making him look presentable. It is both so sweetly domestic, and so unbelievably sexy, that he has the sudden urge to rip off the clothes she has just put on him in order to spend another twelve hours lying on top of her, soaking her up, kissing every inch of her. But she puts the finishing touches on his hair and then sighs, running a hand through her own, and he can see the machinery turn back on in her head, the cogs gaining speed and rubbing against each other, as she decides what to do.  
  
"So…back to work for both of us," says Olivia. "I'd better find a nurse. I need to get out of here."  
  
"I'm sure Cyrus feels similarly," says Fitz. "I…should get going too."  
  
She folds her arms, stares at him intently. Her eyes are shiny and soft, the room's fluorescent lights dancing across her irises. "There are some things I need to take care of today. But I will see you…soon." It is a statement as much as it is a question.  
  
He takes the five steps necessary to close the distance between them. He gently anchors his hand on her chin, and plants a kiss on her nose, soft as rose petals. "Soon," he promises.

* * *

  
  
"You hurt me."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
He kisses her, long and bittersweet, before she is discharged and before he has to go back to the White House. The last notes of their apologies linger, though these kisses are nowhere near as anguished as they were the previous night.  
  
And it's funny, because she had been ready to give up on him, on them, just the other day – so much seemed to have gone wrong that she could not fathom how they would ever crawl their way out of the wreckage – but they have begun the process and he is still here and this isn't over, not yet.  
  
He has hurt her, and she has hurt him, and they are both sorry, so sorry. And they have not stopped loving each other. Though her heart is skittish and escape-prone, he convinced her last night that he loves her, he loves her, even if he is angry at her, even if something has gone wrong. It's not a permanent fix – the air is lighter but still raw and uncertain between them – but it's enough, enough for now.  
  
She came to the hospital in a terrible, scary place, feeling alone, but she leaves it with her head high, her heels clacking confidently – a woman who, in this moment, feels loved. She holds onto the memories of yesterday, onto this feeling, and walks out into the sunlight, ready to fix whatever needs fixing today.

**Author's Note:**

> Any and all feedback is endlessly loved/appreciated.


End file.
